


Moss and Discontinued Chocolates

by Riathel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Kink Meme, Trying Human Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel/pseuds/Riathel
Summary: Short 1k kink meme fill: "Dagon/Beelzebub, experimenting with human dating stuff. It's all new to them, but they don't... Actually care that much, so they're kind of cherrypicking ideas as they go."--“I’ll just, er,” continued Dagon, and then she did something more unexpected than complimenting the Lord of Flies, Flyers, and False Gods.She placed the dripping bundle of Bryophyta and Nymphaeaceae on her head.And grinned. Broadly.





	Moss and Discontinued Chocolates

**Author's Note:**

> I'm wretched with these two.

Beelzebub had been buzzing in a growing crescendo since last Wednesday. Now, as she lurked in the corridor outside Dagon’s filthy, greasy office, the demons parted like that story in the Bible about that blood sea and that guy in a robe, clutching their ears and whining.

Beelzebub had never actually read the Bible. She’d seen the _Prince of Egypt_ , though, in one of Crowley’s damned movie nights. The singing was grating and she had only half-way paid attention to any of it. The plagues had interested her greatly, especially as she had been the progenitor of each one of the original Ten. They’d done a good job. Very stylish. She had set the projector on fire afterwards to indicate her approval.

Flies swarmed out of her parted mouth, running like slick oil down her chin.

It had been Dagon’s fault, all this buzzing, the sudden influx of pustules covering her arms like a rash. The silver crocodile had looked her over with a sharp, toothy grin last Wednesday and had the genuine audacity to say, “Nice jacket,” and slink off as if nothing had happened.

The cup to catch dripping pipe water that Beelzebub had been holding in her left hand had shattered into dust. A slug nearby had whimpered at the sudden puss oozing out of Beelzebub’s red face.

For the rest of the week, she had been unable to wear anything but that mustard-coloured, dusty jacket. She was jerky and irritable—well, more so than usual—unable to even really get into torturing.

It was untenable. There needed to be punishment. Retribution.  _ Ruination. _

She had stewed, and brooded, and loomed over this thought for the whole week: and now, here she was, borrowing ideas like a Lord of Hell couldn't come up with better ones on her own. This was repulsive. She would be a laughing stock. There had to be appropriate responses to this behaviour.

She growled and knocked on the office door. Dagon’s silky voice said, “Come in.”

The doorhandle melted beneath Beelzebub's hand, so she broke the door in half and threw it down the corridor.

“Lord Dagon,” Beelzebub acknowledged coldly, red-hot steel dripping off her left hand. She thrust her other out at Dagon. The crocodile gave her a lazy blink and a lazier smile.

“What’s that?” The other demon's long, dangerous maw tilted to one side, her pupils thinning to tiny slits in her face.

"That" had been the result of four hours of trying to get a computer to work, ripping the throat out of the useless maintenance demon that had been unable to fix it, and eventually calling Crowley to scream a few questions at him through  _ The Good Place. _

“Flowerszzz,” she said curtly. If she had a heart right now, which she only indulged in on Fridays, it would have been inconveniently located in her stomach. But that did not have enough room, as she was currently digesting the aforementioned maintenance demon. "It izzz the appropriate  _ human _ rezzzponzzze to lazzzt Wednezzzzzzzday."

“Oh,” said Dagon. “Thanks.” She accepted the moss-covered lilypad gingerly, turning it this way and that in her claws. “What do I do with it?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Beelzebub had no idea. All the idiot snake had said was, “get her some flowers, women—er, demon women, er—whatever, she’ll like the flowers.” And crocodiles, on earth, lived in water.

So she had made a quick trip to the nearest pond, scooped up a lilypad and a generous heaping of moss and bacteria-filled water into a plastic shopping bag, and eaten a family of mallards for good measure.

All that effort and she still hadn’t figured out what the real purpose of the fucking things was.

Beelzebub’s buzzing softened. She was a fucking idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What did humans do with flowers? Eat them? Surely they had better things, like meat, or other humans, to fill their endless hunger.

Useless, useless, she was going to  _ rip Crowley in two— _

“I’ll just, er,” continued Dagon, and then she did something more unexpected than complimenting the Lord of Flies, Flyers, and False Gods.

She placed the dripping bundle of Bryophyta and Nymphaeaceae on her head.

And grinned.

Broadly.

“Humans do flower crowns, I think,” Dagon said, moss and filthy water dribbling down her face. “Crowns of thorns, anyway. Should bring those back into style.”

Beelzebub felt herself grinning back, her mouth a rictus, looking like a wretched idiot.

“It’szz very you,” Beelzebub said. Amid all the dripping ooze, a white flower with a soft pink centre bloomed at the very top of Dagon’s scaly head.

“Thanks,” said Dagon. “Hang on, before you go…” She turned back to her desk, jammed with oily, thin papers, stuffed to the brim with bundles and bundles of the things, and thrust her hand deep into the pile. When it emerged, she was holding a box wrapped in butcher paper. “Here, I got this at Tesco’s in the clearance aisle a while ago. Might be a bit expired.”

Beelzebub unwrapped it carefully. It was a green and red rectangle. The box stated _Terry’s_ **PYRAMINT** \- PLAIN CHOCOLATE FILLED WITH MINT FONDANT. The expiry date on the side said: 19 December 1985.

With a grave, serious voice, one of the Nine Lords of Hell said, “Are we married now?”

Dagon cackled brightly.  _ Demonically, _ thought Beelzebub fondly, feeling like she was burning from the inside out. This was the closest she had felt to divinity in a very, very, very long time. It was pure, cold agony. The crush of a glacier and the heat of a wildfire.

She wanted so much more of this feeling.

“No, pretty sure that involves rings,” the crocodile said finally. Her scales were very colourful, if you looked closely. Even in the dim light of Hell they reflected rainbows back from their deceptively grey palette. “We could go somewhere, though. Outside of Hell, if you like. For coffee.”

Beelzebub clutched the verdant package to her chest. She would eat the whole thing, cardboard and all.

“I’ve never done many human thingszz,” she admitted.

“Oh. Would you like to?”

_ With you? _ “Yeszz. I szzuppozzze.”

“We could see what all the fuss is about,” Dagon agreed.

“Yeszz. Yeszzzzzz, we could."

“So, coffee? We can bill it to Downstairs.”

Beelzebub's not-heart soared. How clever. How industrious. How  _ evil. _

“Yeszzzzzzz,” she buzzed, absolutely besotted. “Let’zzz do coffee.”


End file.
